


Neptune Station

by speakingwosound (sev313)



Category: Crooked Media RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Violence, Multi, that goes along with the kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-19 18:52:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18976345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sev313/pseuds/speakingwosound
Summary: When Neptune Station is chosen for the third and final debate of the Alliance presidential campaign, Crooked Media jumps at the chance to host it. Their big break is thrown into jeopardy, however, when the advertiser of a lifetime catches Jon and Lovett in a compromising position.





	Neptune Station

**Author's Note:**

  * For [celli](https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/gifts).



> Written for Celli for Fandom Trumps Hate - thank you so much for bidding on me in what is the most powerful exchange of the year. Hopefully you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!

“Welcome every man, woman, gender-nonconforming being, and everyone in-between. There are-” Jon glances at the number in the corner of his tablet. “- already a thousand of you from all across the United Alliance of Planets. This’ll make our producer very happy.”

Behind the camera, Elijah buries his head in his elbows.

“You’re watching the Crooked Media livestream. We’ll be providing you commentary, context, and a little bit of humor as we all struggle through this second presidential primary debate together.”

“Humor’s exactly what this election cycle needs,” Lovett cuts in, “before we end up in a massacre.”

“I don’t know.” Tommy leans his elbows against the table and taps his fingers against the artificial oak - really just an aluminium alloy from Sacre’s fourth moon but dyed to represent the giant trees that populate the human homeworld - until Tanya breaks into all of their ears to _please stop creating an earthquake with your fingers_. “I think both candidates like a bit of verbal sparring as much as we do.”

“A bit more than verbal,” Dan snorts, “if even half of what DeRay’s hearing out in the field is true.”

“That’s DeRay McKesson, host of Pod Save the Beings, a great little audio program you can find on your servers right now,” Lovett interrupts.

Tommy groans.

“What?” Lovett frowns at him. “We’re doing this damn live show instead of drinking each other under the table with the rest of the Alliance. We can at least get a little promo out of it.”

Tommy narrows his eyes. “Corporate shill Jon Lovett, ladies and gentleman and aliens.”

Lovett shrugs and slides his foot under his hip. “Bring me a shoe that fits and I’ll wear it anytime. Did you hear? Shoes are being rationed.”

“Again?” Tommy flexes his arms against the mic stand and valiantly doesn’t start tapping again.

Jon nods - “It was in the news stream this afternoon” - and then, as Elijah frantically makes a _move it along_ signal with his hands, “as I was saying, welcome everyone. I’m Jon Favreau, former speechwriter for President Obama, the last sane president the Alliance has had.”

“I’m Jon Lovett.” Lovett grins into the mic, his dimples growing as he winks at Tommy. “Former speechwriter but, more importantly, the creator of Space Station X, a thrilling political comedy that was ahead of its time. You can also find that whole season on your servers from time to time, although it might cost you a credit or two.”

Tommy shakes his head and mouths ‘monster’ before leaning forward. “I’m Tommy Vietor, former international security spokesperson.”

“And I’m Dan Pfeiffer.” Dan digs his hands into the pocket of his sweatshirt. “Communications director for an Alliance president who _had_ a communications strategy.”

Jon laughs. “We’ll be with you all night. But, first, a word from our sponsors.” He waits until the tape clicks over and then he slides his headphones to the table.

“Need I remind you that we have a goal here?” Elijah steps around his camera, his own headphones hanging around his neck, the ear cushions out of proportion with his body. He’s wearing a crumpled shirt he must have dragged out of his laundry basket, with an old Earth cow across the front with a speech bubble proclaiming ‘sorry, planet, I farted.’

Lovett slides off his chair and squeezes Elijah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. We’ll get more than a thousand listeners after break.”

“I don’t give a shit about our listener numbers,” Elijah sighs.

“If that’s the lie you have to tell yourself.” Lovett shrugs, carrying on to the small, makeshift bar of mostly counterfeit alcohol Dan had traded for down at the market.

“Elijah’s right.” Tanya crosses her legs and picks at the fraying edges of the knees of her jeans. “If we want the debate to be held on the Station, we should probably at least act like you’re qualified moderators.”

“I resent that,” Dan says, easily, as he grabs the whiskey from Lovett and pulls out a shaker.

“Besides,” Lovett leans against bar, watching Dan with slitted eyes. His long-sleeve shirt is rolled to his elbows and gaping around his neck. “They’ve already made their decision. They’re going to announce it at the end of this debate and no matter what miracle we pull out of a hat or how many chairs we tip over-”

“Or how many whiskey sours we have,” Tommy agrees.

“- we’re going to win the gig or we’re not, so, Dan, make it a double.”

“Please don’t,” Tanya sighs.

Dan looks at the two drinks he’s already poured.

“Or at least make one for me, too,” she sighs, brushing her braid behind her shoulder.

“That I can do.” Dan grins, handing the first drink to Lovett and the second to Tommy, letting his fingers linger, before grabbing the shot glass again.

“We’re not going to win anything but an eviction notice,” Elijah sighs.

“Oh, come on, we can dream higher than that. We can win at least a disorderly fine, no?” Lovett grins, reaching for Dan’s next two drinks and handing one to Elijah before sliding into his chair again. The wheels roll closer to Jon and Lovett slides his drink across the table. It leaves condensation and sour mix in its wake.

Elijah steps behind the camera rather than answering. “We’re back in one-two-”

“This is going to be a fun night,” Lovett grins over the rim of his glass. He has a bit of foam on his upper lip and Jon promises himself that it’s Elijah’s countdown that makes him lean over to brush it off with his thumb.

“Yeah,” he grins as Lovett blinks. “Good segment everyone.”

“-three,” Elijah finishes.

“Welcome back,” Jon grins into the camera. His chest feels warm. “There’s still about thirty minutes left before the debate starts, but, we’re here with you all night. First, let’s discuss the possible outcomes. Surely, one of these candidates will get a boost out of tonight’s performance. Dan, let’s go to you first for your predictions.”

***

The whiskey is polished off long before the end of the debate and they’ve moved on to something Dan claims is a liquid delicacy from Ocrean but Jon is absolutely sure is bathtub gin. 

The debate, itself, didn’t see any actual violence, although the highlight of the night might have been the crate of nanobot scorpions unleashed into the crowd. Neither of the candidates claimed the attack and Jon is absolutely sure that it was the main Alliance news network, looking to boost ratings during what was, all in all, a tame iteration of what has not at all been a tame election so far.

Now all that’s left is to wait for the awarding of the third debate site. There are only so many space stations in neutral space and Elijah had spent an inordinate amount of time, forced costume changes, and editing magic to lend their sizzle reel an air of legitimacy, but it’s still a long shot.

Like, a long shot, long shot. The bookies have Areos at 1/4. Their own little Zenith Station is at 15/1 odds.

Jon reaches for the unlabeled bottle of bathtub gin and pours himself another glass to convince himself that it doesn’t matter. Commenting from afar is fun and a hell of a lot less work. Also, a lot safer. The stories out of the first debate were wild - missing candidates, the best cafe on the station held up by gunpoint just for a taste of hot crossed buns, data-destroying nanobots running rampant - and Zenith Station could live without the adventure.

Except, Jon’s been raring for a little adventure lately.

“Are you even listening?”

Jon frowns as he looks up at three shining faces, their eyes glassy and narrowed at him. He clears his throat. “I liked Candidate Curie’s response on black hole safety. She had good statistics and her constituent story about that poor dock worker who lost her life in a malfunction really brought it all together.”

Tommy blinks. Lovett smiles broad enough that his dimples round out his cheeks.

Dan clears his throat. “They’re about to make the announcement.”

“Oh.” Jon flushes, hoping it’ll be hard to tell on the camera, and turns towards the TV they have bolted to the far wall. 

The Grand Arbiter steps forward, a data pad in the crook of their elbow. “That was a fun debate, wasn’t it? Just one debate left and hopefully-” They grimace, the folds of their skin flashing yellow and purple.

Jon’s always been eminently grateful that his skin doesn’t broadcast the full extent of his emotions. The damn flush is more than enough.

“-we can all come to an agreement.”

“Not likely,” Lovett mutters under his breath, followed by, “ow, fuck, Tommy.”

Tommy raises his finger to his lips. “Shh.”

On the screen, the Grand Arbiter looks down at their tablet, their jaw clenching in reds and yellows. “The third and final debate will be held in two weeks time on Zenith Station.”

Jon’s heart stops beating.

All the air sucks out of the small studio.

“The Alliance knows that Zenith Station will extend all courtesies to the candidates, spectators, and any other creature who wants to make the journey. We wish you luck, Zenith.”

The Grand Arbiter steps back and a low, meant-to-be-calming Lallindrian symphony starts to play over scenes of the spectators filing out. Some still crush scorpion nanobots under their heels.

The air rushes back in all at once.

“We won?” Tanya looks around, so quickly her braid comes loose and her hair cascades across her forehead. “We won!”

“I deserve that damn editing certificate,” Elijah grumbles.

Dan points at him. “We’ll get you as many certificates as you want. That sizzle reel worked actual magic.”

Tommy draws out, “well,” without looking up from the tablet he has perched on his knees. “The commander of Areos Station was arrested fifteen minutes ago for election fraud.”

“Oh,” Lovett says, slowly. “They could have gone with Cerros Station.”

“Merchant intimidation charges,” Dan reminds him.

Lovett looks thoughtful for a moment, then raises his glass. “To being the last truly neutral station left and the only possible choice for the third debate.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Elijah agrees, leaning forward to clink their glasses.

“Amen,” Jon agrees, hiding his smile as he downs half his glass. Seems a little adventure is on his plate, after all.

***

“We should start the debate,” Lovett muses another bottle of bathtub gin and a couple of hours later, “with the hardest question we can think of.”

“Who they're supporting in the World Cup?” Dan suggests. Tommy mumbles agreement from his place on Dan's shoulder.

“If we wanna start a third inter-universe war,” Lovett frowns. He's lying on his back, Pundit perched on his chest, and he scratches her head on his way to grabbing his glass. His shirt's riding up over his jeans.

Jon doesn't realize he's staring until Tommy kicks at his ankle, his aim unerring without lifting his head from Dan's neck. Jon blinks at Tommy's socked foot, fishing around for something - anything - to cover for the judgement he must have lost at the bottom of the last bottle.

“Or-” Lovett says, gleefully, raising onto his elbows and dislodging Pundit.

“I don't wanna hear this.” Tanya rises to her feet, putting down her empty glass and reaching for Priyanka's hand. “We're calling it a night.”

Pri frowns down at her glass.

“Bottom's up,” Tanya suggests with a laugh. Then her expression tightens as she gazes at the rest of them. “We have a meeting with the Gnoth at 10am. We need this deal if we're going to break even on this debate.”

“It'll be good publicity either way,” Jon suggests as Dan glares at him and corrects, “we'll all be there with bells on.”

Pri drops her glass to the coffee table. “Please don't. Elijah, you coming?”

“Yeah.” Elijah scrambles off the carpet and takes Pri's offered hand. “Night everyone.”

The metal door slides closed behind them and Dan taps Tommy's hip. “We should be going, too. Tanya will feed us to the Head Council's three-headed cat if we're late for this meeting.”

“Good night,” Lovett calls from the floor. “Don't do anything I wouldn't do.”

“Ew.” Tommy scrunches his nose and pushes his toes into Lovett's side as he pauses. “Get your own husband, and maybe a vacuum. This place is a disaster.”

Lovett sighs and pushes to his own feet a little wobbly. Jon watches, regretfully, as he straightens his t-shirt so it doesn't ride up even when he leans down to collect the detritus littered throughout his room. He dumps the glasses in his sink and dumps the garbage in the incinerator.

“You're such a great help,” Lovett calls, sarcastically. “Don't quit your day job.”

“Wasn't planning on it,” Jon calls back. He should get up. He should clean out the empty bottles so Dan can get them refilled. He should go back to his own rooms, where it's too quiet and too cold but where, at least, he can start the work of forgetting that little slip of skin in peace.

But the couch is comfortable and Lovett has the heat turned up way past the Station limit. Jon nods to the end of the couch, “Leo's pretty comfortable here.”

“Stay,” Lovett says, easily. He huffs as he falls, face first, onto his mattress without getting undressed. His voice is muffled by the pillows. “Just don't snore.”

“Wouldn't dream of it.”

Jon reaches for the blanket on the back of the couch and, as Lovett mumbles “lights off,” he closes his eyes.

***

Jon’s mouth tastes like cotton candy - or, at least, what he imagines cotton candy would taste like, based on the old school Earth kinos that play at the domes every other Friday night - the next morning. Even after he downs three cups of water, standing at the sink with his eyes closed as he keeps the faucet flowing in fragrant disregard for Station regulations

Lovett gives an “umph” from the bed as Leo jumps up to drop his ball on Lovett’s chest. Pundit raises her head long enough to glare at them both, before jumping down to join Jon at the sink, twisting around his ankles and woofing at the faucet.

“Thirsty?” Jon asks her, bending to fill her water bowl. His head spins and he stands up, spreading his fingers over the counter as his stomach rolls. “Fuck.”

The speaker crackles to life. “Mr. Lovett, you have an incoming call from Ms. Somanader. Would you like to accept the call.”

Lovett grumbles and, with a miraculous show of accuracy, throws Leo’s ball so it hits the accept button.

Jon raises an eyebrow and regrets it as he tips forward, repeating “fuck” as he sticks the glass back under the faucet.

“Lovett,” Tanya’s voice comes crackling through. Jon can hear Pri and Elijah laughing in the background, under the sounds of the shower running, but Tanya’s voice is firm. “Ad pitch in half an hour. You up?”

“I answered.” Lovett’s voice is rough and as he rolls out of bed his jeans twist around his waist and his shirt sticks to his biceps. “Rhetorical questions are unbefitting of a woman of your intellect.”

Jon can hear her eye roll through the speaker. “More time showering, less time quipping at me.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lovett yawns and reaches his arms over his head to stretch. “Go bug someone else.”

Tanya sighs. “I’m going to call Jon now, but if you go back to sleep so help me god-”

Jon freezes.

“No need,” Lovett says, easily. “He spent the night on my couch. Consider him already called.”

Tanya groans. “Shower, coffee, both of you. And if you’re going to be sick, do it _before_ you get to my office.”

The speaker clicks off before they can say anything else. Jon glares at the dormant speaker. “It’s our office.”

Lovett laughs and stumbles out of the rest of his quilts. He leans against the counter next to Jon, his hip cocked, and reaches out for the glass. “I’m not always so sure.”

Jon sighs and refills the cup before relinquishing it. “I should change.” He raises his arm to sniff and shivers. “And definitely shower.”

Lovett nods as he follows Jon across the room, his bare feet padding against the metal deck plating. The door swishes open and Jon steps backwards out of it without looking both ways for oncoming traffic. A kid on a scooter yells - “fucking humans, watch where you’re going” - as he swerves to avoid him. 

“And maybe some coffee,” Lovett adds, crossing his arms and leaning against the door jamb.

“Yeah,” Jon laughs ruefully. “Definitely some coffee. I’ll pick up one of those coffee boxes for everyone on my way in.”

Lovett grins. “If you do I’ll even remind Tanya it’s our office.”

Jon grins. “Incentive, I like it.”

Lovett laughs and glances down as Leo races between his feet. When he looks up again, his hair is sticking to his eyebrow, his curls sweaty and damp against his clammy, sleep-deprived eyes. He still looks a little drunk. Jon definitely still feels a little drunk. It’s the only explanation he can think of for reaching out and brushing the curl out of Lovett’s eyes.

Lovett blinks, his eyes brown and concerned and his pupils way too large.

“Ahh.” Jon steps back and squats down to pick up Leo. “I’ll see you in a bit?”

Lovett nods, his throat moving but not saying anything. Or, at least, not in the time Jon gives him before turning on his heels and-

Running into two aliens dressed in long, purple robes embroidered with an intricate pattern Jon’s pretty sure he’d recognize if his brain was fully online. The aliens both bow their heads, their tentacles twisting around their shoulders so they don’t brush the dirty floor.

“Sorry.” Jon sidesteps them. “Sorry, I was in a hurry, but, no excuse, I’ll do better next time.”

He keeps his eyes much better peeled for scooters and tentacles as he jogs the rest of the way to his own rooms.

***

Jon barely has time to do more than wash off the top layer of grime and spritz himself with cologne before detouring past the coffee shop - “no latte today, Ms. Morts, just a box of your darkest roast” - and sliding into their only conference room with a minute to spare.

“Cutting it close,” Tanya taps her fingers, her arms crossed across her chest. She’s wearing a long grey shirt rolled to her elbows, but she looks infuriatingly fresh and clean.

“Sure.” Jon flashes a crooked smile at her and holds up the box. “But I come bearing gifts.”

“Coffee,” Pri grins, reaching out for the spigot before he’s even set the box down. “And they’re not even here yet.”

“The Gnoth aren’t big on many things.” Tommy says, without looking up from the notes Corinne had put together on cultural sensitivity in ad reads. “Timeliness is clearly not one of them.”

Jon waits for Tanya and Elijah to grab their cups, before pouring two of his own and grabbing a handful of creams and sugars to dump in front of Lovett’s chair. Lovett glances up from his phone, his eyes rimmed in dark, red circles but his smile real as he reaches for the cup.

Jon smiles back as he asks, “what are they big on?”

Tommy slides his fingers across his tablet, tracing the words with his finger. “Family, romantic attachments ….” He keeps reading, for a moment, then looks up. “Nope, family, romance, and mating seems to be about it.”

“If you have to choose two societal goals, at least those are nice ones,” Dan shrugs.

“They’re succinct,” Lovett agrees. 

Elijah curls his fingers around his cup and blows over the top of it. “Too bad they’re missing out on the seedy underbelly of the Station.”

Lovett hums as he dumps a host of condiments into his own coffee. “It is our best side.”

“Exactly.”

Tanya’s eyes narrow. “Please, feel free to keep going. The couch has your name on it in bright, neon, flashing lights.”

Lovett leans his elbows on the table. “Seems like that threat loses venom each time you use it.”

Pri shivers. “Not when she makes good on it.”

“Every time,” Elijah adds.

Tanya crosses her legs and rolls her chair under the table so she can tap her fingers against the wood sternly. “If you’re done, there are a few ways we could be using this time productively. I sent the full report on last night’s debate to your inboxes and-”

She’s cut off by a commotion at the front door, and then Corinne’s knocking on the glass conference room. “The representatives of Gnoth are here.”

Tanya rises and offers her hand. The two representatives bow their heads, their tentacles curling around their backs as they do so. Then, in deference to human custom, they extend spindly hands from the intricately embroidered cuffs of their purple robes.

Jon recognizes them with a sinking feeling.

His fear is confirmed as their eyes light up when it’s Jon’s turn. He bows his own head towards them as he apologies, “I really am very sorry for running into you this morning. If there’s anything I can do to make up for my rudeness-”

“Nonsense, Mr. Favreau.” The older one gestures for Jon to take a seat and follows, adjusting his robes and shifting in the chair that Jon’s just realizing are made to human specifications. “We are very grateful to be working with humans that share our values.”

Tanya throws a confused look at Jon, but Jon doesn’t know how his semi-lonely, owns only one bowl and two sets of silverware, bachelorhood is in line with Gnoth values any better than she does.

The Gnoth isn’t looking at Jon, though, but at Lovett. Lovett, who’s blinking into his coffee cup, seemingly mesmerized by the play of his breath across the surface. Tommy steps on his foot under the table and Lovett’s head snaps up. “What?”

Jon snorts.

Tanya glares murderous daggers at all three of them. She spares Dan, although Jon can’t imagine he’ll survive for long.

The Gnoth folds their hands in front of them, their long fingers tapping absently against the table. “When our employer asked us to come here, we were skeptical that lowering ourselves to human standards would be worth the ratings boost for advertising during the third debate.”

“What, exactly, do you mean by ‘human standards’?” Dan asks, leaning forward, his brows knit together. Tanya’s dagger finds a home in his temple. Fourth one, down.

“You must understand, Mr. Pfeiffer,” the Gnoth ambassador says, spreading their hands placatingly. “All we have seen from human movies is death and betrayal.”

“We can’t argue with that,” Lovett shrugs, finally placing his mug down and tuning back into the conversation.

“What,” Tanya jumps in, before they can dig themselves back into a hole they didn’t know they were in the first time, “changed your mind?”

The Gnoth’s smile softens and their eyes flick between Jon and Lovett. “We knew that Mr. Pfeiffer and Mr. Vietor were recently married, but we didn’t know about Mr.s Favreau and Lovett. From what we witnessed this morning, it is clear to us that we made a grave mistake. Of all the companies we’ve talked to in recent weeks, yours aligns most perfectly with our values of love and family.”

Jon frowns, but Lovett rests his hand on his forearm.

“We would like to make you an offer. We think you will be very pleased.” They slide a tablet towards Tanya.

Jon watches Tanya read, already halfway into “what you saw this morning-” when Tanya’s eyes widen.

“This is incredibly generous. We were just asking for a few 30 minute spots.”

The Gnoth nods, their tentacles dancing a complicated dance across their shoulder that, to Jon’s untrained eyes, at least looks pleased. “We have upped our offer to full sponsorship. You must understand our reticence to share advertising space with other companies we cannot vet.”

Tanya shakes her head quickly. “No, no, this is a more than adequate offer. We really look forward to working with you.”

“But-” Jon starts, but Lovett wraps his fingers around Jon’s wrist and squeezes.

“We are very happy to hear that.” Both Gnoth stand. “We will be exploring the Station in the days between now and the debate. We look forward to running into you again, Mr. Favreau.”

Jon swallows. His throat feels dry and all he can feel is the callouses on Lovett’s typing finger, warm against Jon’s wrist.

“We’ll be around,” Lovett promises, smiling wide enough for his dimples to sink into his cheeks.   
He lets go of Jon’s wrist as he stands, pressing his hands together and bowing deeply as they leave.

“Elijah and Priyanka will show you out while I take this contract to our legal team,” Tanya offers, throwing a _behave_ look behind her.

Jon’s not sure how much more misbehaving they can do than lying about a secret relationship he’s not in, but he feels Lovett nod, anyway.

Tommy, at least, waits until the door slicks shut behind them before rolling his chair further away from them. “Is there something you need to tell us?”

“If I had known you had _that much_ last night,” Dan adds, “we would have stayed.”

“Or dragged one of you to our spare room,” Tommy agrees. “Anything to keep you from doing something so monumentally stupid.”

Lovett falls back into his seat and the momentum knocks it against Jon’s. Lovett doesn’t pull it away as he curls his ankles under him and reaches for his coffee again. “Oh come on,” he scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous. Nothing happened.”

Jon’s heart has been clenching since the Gnoth had implied - well, since they implied that the one thing Jon’s spent the last decade tamping down is written so obviously on his face that Jon should just throw in the towel and move to the newest human settlement on Phara T33 tomorrow - but now it squeezes hard enough to cut off his breath.

Tommy raises an eyebrow. “Is it so ridiculous?”

Jon is suddenly aware of the lack of space between them. He’s also very much regretting the night, so many years ago now, that he and Tommy had spent in a broken down shuttle, drifting in neutral space and exchanging their deepest secrets. Convinced, as young people always are, that this was the end and not just a setback. They’d been rescued the next morning, but not before Jon had admitted, in tearful and exacting detail, how far past crush his feelings for Lovett had become.

Tommy’s not wrong in any assumptions he’s making about how much deeper those feelings have burrowed themselves in the years since.

Lovett, though, doesn’t seem to notice either the lack of space between them or the specific way Tommy’s looking at them. Lovett doesn’t count his life in the inches between them. This all probably does feel ridiculous to Lovett. It would feel ridiculous to Jon, too, if he didn’t have so fucking much to hide.

Lovett’s eyes narrow. “The Gnoth made an assumption. They saw Jon leaving my quarters and they jumped to the conclusion that we aren’t both pathetic enough to have fallen asleep in our jeans after an entire bottle of that shit Dan calls quality liquor.”

“Hey,” Dan frowns. “I trade good ad time for that liquor.”

Lovett snorts. “Exactly.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, slowly, still clearly not believing either of them. “What are you going to do now?”

Jon pulls his eyes away from Lovett’s knee, bent so it’s so close to his. “What do you mean, what are we going to do?”

“You’re going to play the role of good, doting boyfriends,” Tanya says, behind them.

Jon hadn’t heard her come in and, judging by the way Lovett jumps next to him, his elbow stabbing Jon’s forearm and his coffee spilling across his fingers, Lovett hadn’t either.

Jon automatically hands Lovett his napkin.

“The Gnoth are paying us more that we’ve made all year to sponsor this one debate,” Tanya continues. “And they’re expecting to see two happy, healthy, committed relationships walking around this station. So, for the next two weeks, that’s exactly what you’re going to be.”

Lovett swallows. “But we’re not.”

“No shit.” Tanya rolls her eyes. “Do what you have to do - and, honestly, from where I’m sitting, you’re not gonna have to change a whole lot - to convince the Gnoth that you’re madly in love.”

Jon really wishes he had found out before this morning that he’d been doing such a shit job of hiding himself from his coworkers. Tommy’s one thing, but, Tanya too?

“You have the rest of the day free to figure it out,” she says, and turns on her heel, letting the door slam shut behind her.

***

“Pod Save the Alliance is brought to you by Harry’s.” Jon looks down at the copy on his tablet. “What do you love the most about shaving with Harry’s? Be specific.”

“This part of my face, right here.” Tommy points to a smooth spot on his jaw. “Listeners, you can’t see it at home, but take it from me, my chin is smooth as a baby’s.”

Lovett leans into the microphone. “It’s Dan’s favorite spot.”

Tommy and Jon groan together, right on cue.

Dan shoves his hands into his kangaroo pocket and raises an eyebrow. “That isn’t my favorite spot.”

“Oh.” Lovett’s eyes light up. “Do tell.”

“That’s for me and Tommy’s Harry’s razor to know,” Dan’s voice cracks a little with his barely restrained laughter. “Just know that Harry can reach all kinds of hard to reach places.”

“I can attest to that,” Tommy agrees.

Over the camera, Elijah makes a ‘keep going’ motion, his eyes focused directly on Jon and Lovett.

“So can I.” Lovett settles his elbows on the table and catches Jon’s eye. “Jon brought me coffee and donut holes this morning.”

Tommy catches Elijah’s meaning, too, and softens his voice. “That’s sweet. I miss young love. Dan doesn’t bring me things anymore.”

“I brought you a ring,” Dan defends, twisting his own ring around his finger.

“Will a ring help me wake up in the morning and provide the fuel I need for a long, taxing day?”

“I kinda thought so,” Dan sighs. “Favreau showing me up over there.”

Jon leans forward, hoping the mic doesn’t catch the shake in his voice. “Sorry, not sorry.” 

“Jon’s putting in a good effort,” Lovett grins, a half-smirk that looks every inch like he means it.

Jon has been putting in a good effort although, honestly, Tanya had been right. It’s proven deceptively easy to slip into the few parts of Lovett’s life that he wasn’t already inhabiting. 

The donuts that morning had been half an apology for leaving Leo’s favorite bone on Lovett’s couch the night before and half an excuse to see the last vestiges of Lovett that he doesn’t get to see every day: Lovett, wearing fluffy striped socks against the cold metal deck, with his curls askew and half smashed from his pillow, folds indented across his cheek and eyes just a little more slitted and a little less guarded than they are after his first cup of coffee.

Jon feels bad for taking every opportunity he can to see as much of that Lovett as he can over the next two weeks.

Or, more accurately, Jon feels bad for not feeling bad.

And he feels even worse for how easy it is to lean towards the mic, return Lovett’s smirk, and bring them back on track - “in exchange for my neverending generosity, Lovett pointed out that I had missed a spot while shaving this morning” - with an anecdote that could be true, that he would give everything in him to be true, but isn’t.

Lovett, though, shifts in his seat, his eyes dancing the way they always do when Jon plays along with a bit. “Just a little one, right above his lip.”

“Oh, that’s the worst,” Dan groans, playing his own part.

“When you miss a spot right there, or right by your nose, and you can’t stop thinking about it,” Tommy commiserates.

“It bugs you all day long,” Lovett agrees.

“Which is why I borrowed Lovett’s razor and, oh boy, let me tell you. The perfect shave,” Jon says, locking his actual memory - the Lovett who’d left his bathroom door open as he’d shaved his own upper lip that morning, leaning towards the mirror and picking at every small blemish as if they were reminders of his imperfections rather than unique perfections that Jon kisses in his dreams - into the ‘do not touch, may burn’ corner of his mind.

“Did it have a weighted ergonomic handle?” Lovett asks, glancing down at the copy.

Jon nods. “Felt perfect in my hand.”

“I know something else that would fit perfectly in your hand,” Lovett murmurs.

Tommy and Dan both groan. Jon - playing the part, he figures, even though he comes by it naturally - blushes to the tips of his ears.

“My quip toothbrush,” Lovett clarifies, rolling his eyes. “Get your minds out of the gutter, honestly.”

Jon snorts. “Right, _our_ minds are in the gutter.”

“Anyway,” Lovett says, slowly. “Did you use the rich lathering shave gel?”

Jon nods, fighting against the memory of Lovett lathering his own hands that morning. “I did. It created a very smooth glide.”

Lovett swallows and for a brief, ridiculous moment, Jon thinks he’s remembering the same thing Jon is. Then he blinks down at the copy. “That is why Harry’s stands behind the quality of their blades. Harry’s delivers a close, comfortable shave at a reasonable price,” Lovett reads. “Harry was sick of those garbage blades with all those unnecessary features. They knew it came down to great blades made with sharp, durable steel that lasts. That’s why they bought a factory on Nyke’s moon that has been making some of the highest quality blades in the universe for 395 standard years. So if you’re a species that has decided that some of the hair you grow naturally is actually unnatural-”

“That is strange,” Tommy muses.

“- then check out Harry’s today. Tell them Crooked sent you and you’ll get 20% off.”

“Do you ever wonder why we haven’t evolved past shaving?” Tommy asks.

“Because my partner doesn’t like beard burn,” Lovett shrugs, without meeting Jon’s eyes.

“Tommy’s either,” Dan agrees.

Tommy sighs. “I’m sorry I asked.”

“I’m sorry about so many things,” Jon agrees. “End of ad.”

***

“Jonathan Edward Favreau.”

In the span of the time it takes Jon’s mother to yell his full name through his apartment speakers, he realizes he’s made three fateful errors. First, he’d forgotten that his parents listen to his show religiously. Second, he’d neglected to tell his parents about his new faux relationship. Third, he’d answered his intercom without checking the caller ID.

Jon swallows. “Hi, mom.”

A request comes through for video but Jon takes one look at the stained shirt he’s wearing and figures he can picture his mother’s disappointment just fine and rejects it.

“Oh, hi, Jonathan. So you do remember how the phone works.”

Jon sighs and sits on the edge of his couch closest to the speakers. He pulls Leo into his lap. “Do you want me to respond to that, or-?”

“Your father and I were just listening to your latest episode over breakfast,” she interrupts, “and imagine our surprise when we got to the ad portion.”

“I’m sorry mom.” Jon sighs, scratching behind Leo’s ears as he noses at Jon’s wrist. “I really meant to tell you before we made it public, but, well, with the debate coming up-”

“You forgot to tell the people who birthed you that you’ve finally gone public on this relationship.”

Jon rubs at his forehead with his free hand. “Finally?”

“You’ve had so many chances over the last _ten years_. We’ve met him hundreds of times and not one of those times did you-”

“Wait, hold on.” Jon frowns. “Do you think we’ve been-? We haven’t been dating all this time.”

That pulls her up. “Oh?”

“I may have made a mistake in not telling you before yesterday, but I haven’t been hiding this from you for a _fucking decade_.”

“Watch your language, son,” Mark chastises.

“Sorry,” Jon apologies for the- he’s lost count. “It’s new. Very new. Still in the packaging, new.”

“Well,” Lillian huffs. “That almost makes it okay that we had to find out about this over the radio.”

“I really am sorry about that.”

“And you can make it up to us over dinner-”

Jon’s heart thumps against his ribcage. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

“Saturday night at that new Votyrian place on the edge of the marketplace. Andy and Molly went last week and said it was very exotic. We think Lovett will like it.”

Despite himself, Jon smiles at the fondness in his mother’s voice. “He will,” Jon agrees, “but, we really are very busy right now. Can we plan it for after the debate?” _After we’ve broken up for the cameras_.

“Saturday night,” Lillian repeats.

“But-”

“Don’t argue with your mother,” Mark cuts in.

Jon sighs. “We’ll be there.”

***

“Your parents?” Lovett asks, a hint of fear at the edges of his voice.

“My mom listens to the pod,” Jon explains and then, mostly to take that look off Lovett’s face but partly to lash out about this impossible position they’re both in, adds, “and you laid it on pretty thick during that Harry’s ad.”

Anger chases the fear off Lovett’s face and settles in his eyebrow, thick and furrowed, just as Jon wanted it to. “ _I_ laid it on thick?”

Jon nods. The line moves forward and Jon’s hand twitches, wanting to rest on the small of Lovett’s back and push him forward. Instead, Jon takes a step and trusts Lovett to follow. “‘I know something that would fit perfectly in your hand,’” Jon parrots, only regretting it when the teenagers in front of them turn around with sharp looks. Jon smiles blandly at them. “Sorry, this really is a PG-13 movie.”

The teenager on the right - he’s wearing a beanie over his pink spiked hair, but it’s not quite enough to hide the points on his ears - rolls his eyes. “Don’t they show a matinee for the grandpas who can’t miss their bedtime?”

“I’m not a grandfather,” Jon bites back. “I’m not even a father. Yet.”

The teenager raises a turquoise eyebrow. “Apologies for your lonely existence.”

Lovett covers his mouth as his body shakes with laughter. Jon frowns at him. “I’m not lonely. Can’t you see I’m here with someone?”

“My condolences to your boyfriend.” The teenager gives Lovett an exaggerated bow of his head.

The word thrills down Jon’s spine like wildfire.

Lovett looks up at Jon with affected affection, his fingers warm on Jon’s shoulder as he leans closer. “Jon keeps me quite satisfied, but thank you for your concern.”

The teenager makes a gagging noise. “Gross.”

Jon opens his mouth - to say what, he’s honestly not sure, as he’s having a hard time thinking of smart comebacks under the weight of Lovett’s hand and the warmth of his defence - but he’s saved from answering as the line clears and the teenagers step up to the counter.

Lovett doesn’t step away from Jon as he turns his gaze to the menu. “Sweet or savory?”

Jon wants to slide his hand down Lovett’s hip, lean close, whisper something about how they can save sweet for after the movie. He swallows. “We could cut the difference? Those Khil fried grasshoppers are doused in honey.”

Lovett rears his head back far enough to level a glare at Jon. “What are we, heathens? This is an old Earth Kino. We will follow old Earth traditions.”

Jon blinks. “Sorry?”

Lovett rolls his eyes and pulls his hand back as he steps forward, flashing the man behind the counter his widest smile. “Good evening. My friend and I would like your largest bucket of popcorn with as much butter as you can put on it, please.”

Jon tries to ignore the flash of jealousy that douses the fire in his stomach, as he stands awkwardly where Lovett left him.

“That’ll be seven credits,” the man says, his tone bored as he drops a bucket onto the counter that has to be at least three times the size of Lovett’s head.

“Such a racket,” Lovett grumbles goodnaturedly, then turns that same, wide smile on Jon. “Give the man his money.”

Jon tries to sigh as he digs out his wallet, but it doesn’t last.

The man gives him back his change, looking even more bored with Jon than he was with Lovett. Jon pockets it, then lengthens his stride so he can catch up with Lovett halfway through the crowd.

“What took you so long?” Dan asks, as they finally make it through. “The show’s about to start.”

Lovett rolls his eyes and jabs his elbow into Jon’s side. “Jon picked a fight with some teenagers.”

Tommy’s eyebrow disappears into his forehead. “That sounds productive.”

Lovett bats his eyelashes at Jon as Jon hands over their tickets and they step into the dark theater. “He played his role valiantly. I honestly didn’t know he had all these acting skills in him. Although-” Lovett eyes the seats and counts in his head, before choosing the perfect spot for optimal sight and sound and leads them there. “- I do have some tips, if you’re taking suggestions?”

“On how to fake date you?” Jon asks.

“On how to not look like fake dating me is the worst thing that ever happened to you,” Lovett sighs as he settles in the seat next to Dan.

Dan laughs, wrapping his arm around Tommy and stealing a chocolate covered peanut from Tommy’s hand. “Lovett does have a point.”

Jon sighs. There are already ads playing for the latest Zumian scooter and the newest Hawaith restaurant in the marketplace, the lights dancing across Lovett’s smirk in flashes of blues and greens and yellows. It’s a challenge Jon knows he can meet, a bet Jon knows he can win, a gauntlet Jon’s not at all certain he’ll be able to put down when the time comes, a Pandora’s box Jon won’t be able to close again.

Jon’s heart is pounding as he reminds himself that the debate is in ten days. Ten days where he can let himself be exactly who he’s always wanted to be. Ten days, then he can lock himself away again.

Jon lifts his arm and spreads it along the back of Lovett’s chair. 

Lovett grins, pulling his knees under himself and leaning into Jon’s side, tipping the bucket of popcorn towards him. “So, dinner with your parents?”

Jon groans and takes a handful of popcorn.

***

“I don’t understand a thing on this menu,” Lillian sighs as she puts down her menu and folds her reading glasses into the collar of her shirt. 

Lovett looks up, a frown creasing his brow. “Do you want me to translate?”

Lillian shakes her head. “Why don’t you order for us, honey? We trust you.”

Jon snorts. “That seems like a terrible idea.”

“Jonathan,” Lillian admonishes.

“Maybe we should have gone someplace else.” Lovett bites his bottom lip. His knee is bouncing and Jon only hesitates for a moment before reminding himself that he has nine days left to take advantage of this and placing his hand on Lovett’s thigh.

Lovett jumps, but his knee stills. Jon doesn’t move his hand away.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Lillian looks at the table next to them, where the diners are feeding a plate full of wiggling insects to an open flame. “This looks very … interactive.”

“And the people watching is worth a late night burger trip,” Mark adds.

Lillian hits his shoulder. “Sometimes, inside thoughts are inside thoughts.”

Jon laughs. “It’s alright. Lovett and I’ll probably be taking a pizza trip ourselves.”

“To be fair,” Lovett shrugs, “we’d be getting midnight pizza regardless of what we eat for dinner.”

“That is true,” Jon rests his chin on his hand and watches his parents watch the other diners. When they’d followed him and Andy out here a few years ago, Jon had advocated for their adaptability while Andy had warned about old age and xenophobia. The results have, so far, settled somewhere in the middle, aided mostly by the community of ex-Earthers they’d moved into. They tend a small garden under artificial Earth conditions, Lillian runs a book club to maintain her linguistic skills, and Mark watches football games broadcast in from Earth over a month delayed.

They rarely leave the small community they’ve built. Crooked Media, though, can only afford office space in the seedier mixed-race levels of the station, and Tanya’s been pushing them to show their faces around their new community. Dan, who grew up nomadically across the Alliance, has taken to it naturally. He’s dragged an extremely reluctant Tommy and an enthusiastic Lovett along with him. Jon’s played along in name if not in spirit, and he isn’t exactly proud of all the lying he’s had to do to explain his detours to the Earth marketplace two decks up, but he’s not beating himself up over it, either.

Lovett, at least, doesn’t order the interactive insect BBQ. Jon’s pretty worried he had, as he regales them with a history of at-table BBQs - starting with Earthen cultures in China, Japan, and Brazil, and winding through the Rian cultures of Triberian and the Zorians who subsist entirely on moth-like insects - while they wait for their food to come. When it does, though, it’s an almost palatable mix of cold noodles and pre-cooked meat and a soup that seems to be magically boiling without a flame.

“It’s a Votyrian stew,” Lovett explains, as he spoons some into a bowl and hands it across the table to first Lillian, then Mark. “It’s quite good. A little sour and a little chewy, but the aftertaste is magical.”

Jon looks skeptically at his own bowl, already devising a plan to spill it into Lovett’s lap if it tastes like it looks. He takes a cautious spoonful, frowning, already, as _sour_ overwhelms his taste buds, followed by a burst of something sweet and spicy and “fuck, this is really good.”

“And you didn't trust me,” Lovett smirks.

“I did,” Jon insists, sincerity bursting out of his Pandora’s box and infusing this moment with a decade of trust it's not heavy enough to absorb. “I always do.”

Lovett's smirk softens and spreads into a smile that Jon likes to think of as his. Lovett didn't use to smile like this, all those years ago when he stepped off a shuttle with a backpack on his back and nothing but his wits and his tongue to make it on. When he smiled then, it was wide and toothy and it made Jon feel like he ruled Lovett's world, until he realized that it was constructed to do just that. To make Jon - to make whoever Lovett was with at the time - feel special and needed and important.

That constructed importance doesn't hold a candle to what it really feels like to be the center of Lovett's attention. To see him smile, really smile, to watch it bloom across Lovett's lips, in the crinkles at his temples, in the soft, shy way he slits his eyes.

Jon has the terrible urge to kiss him, to add the memory of what Lovett tastes like to the private knowledge of this smile. Instead, he raises his thumb to wipe a drop of sour soup from the corner of Lovett's mouth, feels the scratch of his skin after a day without shaving and the way Lovett tenses under him, shivering so slightly that Jon wouldn't see if it if he couldn't feel it.

“So,” Lillian clears her throat, drawing their attention to her.

Lovett pulls back, fidgeting with the napkin in his lap. Jon straightens his shoulders, reaching for his spoon again.

Lillian's eyes are dancing at them. “This is new.”

Lovett laughs tightly. “Not so new, really. Jon and I have always been close, it wasn't such a leap.”

Jon hears _it wouldn't have to be_ and wonders how much of this is the old Lovett, putting on a show, and how much of this is his Lovett.

“That is true,” Lillian smiles, taking another bite of her own soup. “This is really very good. We should get out of the commune more often, shouldn't we, Mark?”

Mark nods.

Lovett flushes warm with the praise. Jon slides his hand under the table and rests his hand on Lovett's knee again.

“Eat your soup,” Lillian orders. “You're both much too thin.”

Lovett face falls back into a smirk. “Yes, Jon, listen to the woman.”

Jon laughs and picks up his spoon.

***

“I’m going to play you a song.”

The room groans, collectively. On stage, the Lallindrian shifts, crossing their long, bottom legs and wrapping their other four around the lyre. A bright, nervous note rings out over the crowd as their fingers shake against the strings.

“I wrote it for, ahh, someone. You know who you are.” The Lallindrian takes a deep breath and starts to play.

They’re surprisingly good. Their shoulders sway to the song and, after the first few shaky bars, their voice is low enough to break through the chatter.

“Is it just me,” Tommy frowns, leaning back against Dan’s chest, “or does this love song sound an awful lot like Katy Perry?”

Dan rests his chin on Tommy’s shoulder. “Now that you mention it.”

“Right?” Tommy laughs, tipping back the rest of his drink. “Serves us right for coming to an Dri’Qot hosted open mic night.”

Jon shrugs. “I kind of like it.”

Lovett laughs and leans into his shoulder. “I hope you’re this nice about my set.” His cheeks are flushed as he finishes off his second drink, the alcohol and the crush of bodies and, Jon hopes, the feel of Jon’s body against his settling high on his cheeks. He shakes his glass, slurping as he searches for the last of the gin between the ice cubes, then holds it out to Jon, batting his eyelashes. “Get me another one?”

Jon rolls his eyes, “you have two very functioning feet,” but he’s already pushing his chair back.

“You’re the best boyfriend,” Lovett intones, sinking, a little, into the empty space Jon’s left behind and looking up at him pleadingly.

Jon blinks, his world slipping sideways into an alternate dimension where Jon could lean down and kiss him. Jon wonders, vaguely, if he should spend his next week-long vacation on the moons of Xanov, sliding through wormholes until he finds the universe where Lovett would let him.

Dan squeezes his shoulder, steadying him, and Jon blinks. He doesn’t want an alternate Lovett. He wants this Lovett, who leaves his dirty socks next to the couch and checks Pundit’s water bowl twice a day and smiles at Jon with well-worn grooves at the edges of his eyes. 

Lovett frowns at him. “No more alcohol for you.”

Jon shakes his head and snatches the glass from Lovett’s hand, telling his traitorous heart to chill the fuck out as their fingers brush. “Fuck off. Gin and tonic?”

“Surprise me,” Lovett shrugs.

Jon sighs and follows Dan to the bar, getting halfway through ordering “a whiskey and coke and the brightest colored drink you have” before he’s jostled out of the way.

“A bucket of beers,” the Izied orders. She’s big, taller and wider than either Jon or Dan, with bulging biceps. She’s filed her arm fins so that they come to a point that would draw blood if touched. Although Jon’s pretty sure that he’d end up with a lot more than a bloody finger if he tried.

The waiter frowns and nods at Jon. “There’s a queue.”

The Izied crosses her arms, her yellow eyes narrowing. She’s wearing a faux leather vest, with ‘Anarchist’ written in white puffy paint across her shoulder blades. “A bucket of beers,” she repeats.

Jon motions for the waiter to go ahead and serve her, tapping his fingers anxiously against his thigh until the Izied is gone.

“Fucking Anarchists, crawling all over the Station these days,” the waiter scoffs at her back, then turns to Jon. “What can I get for you again?”

Jon repeats his order, then leans against the side of the bar. He watches as the Izied crosses to her table and dumps the bucket in the middle of a group of her goons. The waiter isn’t wrong, Jon has seen many more so-called Anarchists - self-termed Freedom Fighters, bent on ridding the galaxy of institutional inequalities through chaos and destruction - roaming across the station in the past week or so.

Jon blames the election. Candidate Gallow hasn’t encouraged the Anarchists’ violent tactics in so many words, but he hasn’t discouraged them either. Most, Jon included, attribute the kidnappings and nanobot attacks surrounding the first debate to the Anarchists. Some even contend that Gallow backed the attacks, although Jon isn’t quite so ready to believe that the Alliance’s political system has stooped that low.

“So.” Dan leans against the bar next to him, their shoulders brushing and pulling Jon out of his thoughts. “This is going well.”

On stage, the lyre player finishes to a surprisingly robust round of applause. They relinquish the stage to a Trok dressed in ceremonial three-dimensional robes that shimmer and blink at the corners of Jon’s sightline. She has two horns nestled in her ruby curls, their fuzz giving away her early years. She holds up a battered red notebook and starts to read.

Jon cringes. “It was before the poetry portion of the evening began.”

“You have to give her credit for having the balls,” Dan says, pointedly. “And not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” Jon sighs. The waiter comes back with a large, pineapple-shaped glass. The alcohol splashes over the edges, as bright as a sunrise on Cion. Jon’s only ever seen one at the Kino, but he’s imagined sitting on a sand dune, watching the Cion’s four suns rise in splashes of orange and yellow and purple, illuminating every groove and wrinkle in Lovett’s face.

Fuck, Jon’s really got to lock this up again. They only have four days left, and then the debate is over and, the moment Tanya’s cashed the Gnoth’s check, so is this charade.

Dan raises an eyebrow as he pays for all four of their drinks and wraps his hands around his and Tommy’s more subdued glasses. “Sometimes,” he says, slowly, “it takes the most extenuating of circumstances to show us what we’re missing most.”

Jon snorts. “Maybe you should get up there and recite some poetry.”

“Tommy would kill me,” Dan sighs, almost wistfully. “Just think about it, okay?” 

Jon takes a long sip of his drink, “sure,” and grabs Lovett’s as he hears the MC start Lovett’s introduction. Jon pushes through the crowd, murmuring “sorry” and “excuse me” in standard as well as the other five languages he’s picked up on the Station. They get to the table just in time to shove Lovett’s pineapple-sized drink into his hands and offer a “break a leg” that Lovett dismisses with a wave of his hand.

Lovett starts out like everyone else had, with a highly crafted monologue about the state of the Station’s internal transit system that has Jon and Tommy in stitches but cuts just under the thrum of the crowd. As Lovett slides from the monologue into a series of politically-themed audience participation jokes, though, the chatter dies down, replaced by collective laughter.

Jon’s always been a little in awe of Lovett on stage. Jon, himself, has to take a calming pill every time they have a live show, even when he knows they have a rapt crowd. Lovett, though, looks at a crowd like a challenge and a stage like a weapon he knows how to yield, with more or less deft depending on how many drinks he’s had and how quickly the crowd is behind him. 

It’s intoxicating to watch Lovett wrap the applause and the heckles around himself in equal measure. He uses them like stilts and - as he flips his microphone in the middle of the encore and it slips through his fingers - Jon’s crossing the room before he even realizes he’s doing it, ready to catch him if he falls.

Lovett doesn’t fall, though. He jogs off the stage, his cheeks flushed and his curls sticking to his forehead, and reaches immediately for the drink sweating in Jon’s hand. “How was it?” Lovett asks, as he tips it back, then rests it on the edge of the stage. “They seemed to like it?”

It’s a ridiculous question. The crowd loved him. _Of course_ the crowd loved him. But Lovett’s deflating, a little, in front of him and Jon would do anything to help him maintain that veneer of stardom for just a little longer. So he closes the distance between them, drawing all of Lovett’s considerable attention to him.

It takes a moment, but then Lovett meets him halfway. He straightens his spine, bowing around the hand Jon spreads on his lower back, and tangles his fingers in the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck. He fits against Jon’s mouth the way he fits in Jon’s life, taking everything Jon has to give and giving it back in spades.

“Fuck,” Lovett murmurs, when he settles back on his heels. His cheeks are flushed and his lips are wet, his eyes wide and glassy as he peers up at Jon, open and questioning.

Jon swallows, his heart clenching as he forces himself to whisper, “the Gnoth will love that.”

Lovett’s eyes shudder closed and he steps back. “Always knew someone would pay me for my body someday.”

Jon’s stomach twists and he feels more like crying than like laughing, but he forces a chuckle out of his mouth. His neck feels cold and he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to sleep again without dreaming about Lovett’s back bowing under him.

“Come on.” Lovett’s shoulders are straight, again, and he doesn’t reach for Jon’s hand as he turns towards the bar. “Buy me another drink.”

***

Jon's halfway through packing his overnight bag for the debate when his doorbell rings. He sighs - Lovett needs to get Jon's key surgically attached to his fingers - and takes his toothbrush out long enough to yell a garbled “it's open.”

Leo's claws skitter across the floor as the door swishes open, barking the way he hasn’t with Lovett and Pundit in days, now.

“I brought coffee,” Tommy's voice comes filtering through the apartment. “Jon?”

Jon frowns, spitting before he's really done and rinsing his mouth out. He reaches for a shirt and pokes his head around the door. “Sorry, I thought you were Lovett.”

Tommy frowns. He's clean shaven and dressed smartly and Jon can read the reluctance in every inch of him. He holds up a greasy paper bag. “Hopefully a rice ball is a good consolation prize.”

Jon nods and throws the rest of his toiletries in his duffel bag, then joins Tommy at his kitchen table. “Depends on where you got it.”

Tommy rolls his eyes and hands it over. “I'm not an idiot. I know the way to your heart.”

Jon laughs and pulls out the ball of fried rice. It's still steaming, chunks of BBQ-ed meat and eggs stuck to the sides. Jon's favorite. Jon's comfort breakfast. “What's the occasion?” Jon asks as he squeezes off a piece and burns the tips of his fingers.

Tommy shrugs. “Can’t I bring you pre-debate weekend good luck breakfast?”

“You could,” Jon agrees. He drops a small piece of meat for Leo. “But you wouldn't.”

Tommy reaches forward to snag a quarter of the rice ball from under Jon's slapping hand. “It’s a big weekend.”

Jon nods. “The Alliance has a big choice to make in this election. Hopefully we can steer them into making the right one.”

Tommy nods. “Neutrally.”

“Right,” Jon agrees. “Neutrally.”

“And, after the debate?” Tommy doesn't _quite_ look Jon in the eye. “It’ll be nice for everything to go back to normal.”

Jon snorts. “Tanya and Elijah can stop pulling their hair out. I'm sure they're ready to go back to regularly scheduled programming, where we're the worst they have to deal with.”

“Right.” Tommy raises an eyebrow without moving his gaze from over Jon's shoulder. “And you and Lovett can go back to-” Tommy waves his hand and Leo raises onto his hind legs so he can lick BBQ remnants off Tommy's fingers. “- regularly scheduled programming.”

Jon swallows and looks down. The rice is sitting heavy in his stomach. “Right.”

“That'll be nice.” Tommy's voice would sound breezy if Jon didn't know him so well. “It must be hard to pretend.”

All Jon can hear is his own ragged breathing. He wants to ask if Tommy means _pretending to love him_ or _pretending not to_. All he can say, though, is “sure.”

Tommy's face softens as his gaze finally settles on Jon's and Jon knows it's the latter. Tommy was there the night Jon met Lovett and has been there for so many of the nights inbetween, of course it's the latter. “Just three more days.”

Jon ties the rhythm of his breathing to Tommy's. “Yeah.”

“Just don't do anything else stupid-”

Tommy's breath catches and so does Jon's as he’s thrown back to the club and the feel of Lovett's hand on his back and the softness of his mouth.

“-and we'll all be fine.”

Jon nods. “Three more days.”

It sounds more like a death sentence than a life line. 

Three days. He has three more days to live the life he's always dreamed of living, then he's going to go back to the drab, hollow outline of the life he was leading before.

Tommy grins, though, and holds out his fist. “Good talk.”

Jon bumps it. “Yeah. Thanks for the reminder. I needed it.”

Tommy nods. “I'm always here for you.” He slides his chair back and grabs his coffee. “Well, right now I'm going to head back home for my duffle. But I'll be here for you in twenty minutes at the main transport station?”

Jon laughs and waves him away. “I'll be there.”

***

“Fuck.” Tanya stops, staring up at the hotel. It’s the size of their entire deck, with bright, glittering signs and a banner welcoming visitors to the debate in all 30 approved Alliance languages.

Elijah slides his hand into hers. “We’ve made it.”

Lovett snorts. “We’ve gotta make good on our newfound fame first, but, yeah, pretty good for a scrappy upstart podcast, no?”

Jon nudges him and then keeps his hand on Lovett’s side. “Not so scrappy anymore.”

“Not so upstart,” Tommy whistles. He adjusts his duffle on his shoulder. “Are we just going to look or are we going to go inside?”

Pri tugs on Tanya’s other hand. “Inside, preferably. I want to see these suites we were promised. Do you think they come with decks? A jacuzzi on a deck?”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Tanya warns.

“You’ll never get Tanya to skinny dip while we’re still on the Station,” Elijah agrees, ducking as Tanya swats at his head.

“Tommy’d be up for it,” Dan winks.

Tommy shrugs and slides his fingers between Dan’s. “I could be convinced.”

Jon laughs, hyper aware of his fingers at Lovett’s side. _Three more days_. He flexes his arm, sliding it along Lovett’s back and spreading his fingers on Lovett’s hip. 

Lovett smiles, a nervous quirk of his lips, and leans into him as they grab their key and press the button for the top floor.

“The Gnoth are incredible,” Lovett blinks down at the letter their advertisers had left at the front desk. “They’ve made reservations at the four star restaurant in the hotel for tonight and left us a handful of poker chips, each. I bet Dan can do something with them.”

Jon slides his key into the lock. “I could do something with them.”

Lovett leans against the wall and raises an eyebrow at Jon. “With that poker face? Not likely.”

_I've been fooling you_. The door clicks green and Jon pushes in, his retort dying on his lips.

“Don't pout,” Lovett starts, then puts his hand on Jon's back to stop his momentum before he runs into him. “Holy shit.”

Jon blinks, but when he opens his eyes again the enormity of the room is still there. The heart shaped bed of the honeymoon suite, surrounded by rose petals and a chilling bottle of champagne.

“Well,” Lovett swallows, stepping around Jon and reaching for the champagne, “when in Rome, right?”

Jon nods, “when in Rome,” and accepts his glass.

***

“I could get used to this.” Lovett falls onto the VIP couch next to Jon, his knee sliding over Jon’s and his drink sloshing over both their pants. It’s bright and clumpy - fruit pulp, Jon hopes, but he’s not about to check - and Lovett digs at the drops with his fingers.

“You better not,” Tommy tells him. He’s had as many Gnoth-provided drinks as the rest of them, but where Jon’s having trouble making the room stop spinning or being anything but warm and happy, Tommy’s managing to channel his tipsiness into disapproval. 

Jon feels trapped between the narrowed _remember our conversation_ slant of Tommy’s eyes and the feel of Lovett’s fingers, picking at Jon’s inseam. Jon shivers and takes a long sip of his drink, letting himself slide towards the latter as he taps Lovett’s hip. “Leave it, these will have to be dry cleaned, anyway.”

Tommy sighs. “Crooked can’t support your slip into debauchery.”

Lovett raises an eyebrow, flattening his palm against Jon’s thigh. “Who’s slipping into debauchery.”

Tommy sighs again and follows his line of sight to the poker tables. Pri and Elijah are pressed close together, feeding pennies into the slot machines. Pri’s giggling, her entire body pressed into Elijah’s chest. Tanya and Dan, though, are locked into a high rolling battle of wits while the rest of the table - including another of those damn Izied anarchists, the points of his arm fin visible from here - grows restless. As they watch, Tanya throws down her cards and raises her hands in triumph.

“He’s going to be paying for that, too,” Tommy shakes his head. “He’s going to be miserable tomorrow night.”

Lovett shifts, raising his hips off the couch, his jeans pulling at his thighs, to pull a small plastic bag out of his pocket. “I’ve got that covered. Well, the Gnoth have that covered. They gave this to me with orders to ‘enjoy your night, all expenses paid.’ They even provided the hangover cure.”

“Is that why you wanted to order the imported organic steak at dinner?” Jon raises an eyebrow.

Lovett shrugs. “Of course. What, you thought I’d spend our entire yearly earnings on one dinner?”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Lovett shakes his head, sadly. “What you think of me.”

Jon snorts, throwing caution to the wind and leaning down to press a kiss to Lovett’s forehead.

Tommy leans forward to grab the bag. “These are hangover bots. These aren’t legal in neutral space.”

Lovett shrugs. “They work though. Wouldn’t have gotten through college without them, or speechwriting, for that matter.”

“You’re a menace,” Jon shakes his head, fondly. 

Lovett shrugs, looking up at Jon, his eyes sparkling the darkest brown under his glasses. “You love me.”

Jon swallows, weighing the consequences of answering truthfully, for the purpose of their fake relationship.

“We tolerate you,” Tommy corrects before he can, though, and pockets the bots. Hypocrite.

“What are we tolerating?” Tanya crows as she climbs the step to join them. “Oh, I know. That this is my club and you’re all just living in it.”

Dan sighs and falls onto the couch next to Tommy, stealing his drink. “She’s the sorest winner.”

Tommy pinches his thigh as he laughs. “You’re the best sport, someone should take a picture. Camera anyone?”

Tanya pulls her tablet out of her back pocket and aims it at them. She doesn’t take it, though, until Tommy pulls Dan into a long kiss, under the pretense of stealing his drink back.

Dan sighs. “I needed that.”

“Anytime,” Tommy grins, his cheekbones flushing.

Dan narrows his eyes. “The drink.”

Tommy tightens his eyebrows, offended, as Tanya laughs and drops stacks of credits onto the table. “Drinks for everyone.”

Lovett tips his head back against Jon’s chest. “We need another round.”

Jon laughs, tangling his fingers in Lovett’s curls. Another drink is dangerous. Another drink would bury it's way inside his chest and pry open his lockbox, just that bit more.

Jon nods. “I'm in.”

***

Jon’s mouth is dry. He can still taste sugar on his lips and his eyes feel salted shut with margarita rims. His memories of last night are in fits and starts, flashes of Lovett's smile and the ghost of Lovett's hand high on his thigh. A movie reel of drinks and sticky fingers and Dan trying to do an old Earth dance called the Hokey Pokey. Bits of Tanya forcing Pri to dance to a Lerian banger and Lovett humming it in his ear. A last flash of falling into this bed with another bottle of champagne and a box of Hawiath chocolates, before falling asleep with mere inches between them.

Jon groans, rolling over and throwing his arm out-

And he hits another body.

A soft, familiar, warm body that smells just as sour as he does.

Jon forces his eyes open and never wants to wake any differently. Lovett's perfect, with his boxers low on his hips and his shirt twisted around his ribs, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and sleep where it's smashed against the pillow. He's facing Jon, his shoulders curled inwards and his knees pulled up, protective and open all at once, and Jon wants this.

Jon wants this forever.

His internal calendar flips over. _Two more days._

Two more days and then Jon has to let him go. Jon will have to pretend that he doesn't know, after a decade of wondering, that Lovett kisses exactly how he talks, with his hands and his lips and every ounce of his attention. Jon will have to pretend that their breakup, fake or not, isn't killing him, that it'll be okay to go to work every day, to debate policy and apologize through coffee rather than kisses. Jon will have to pretend that he's not going home every night to remember every touch in the darkness of his own bedroom.

_Don't get too deep_ , Tommy had warned.

What does it mean, though, to cry fire when the house has already burned to the ground?

Tommy's warning was about a decade and an advertising deal too late. No matter what lies Jon had told himself - and Tommy and Dan and Lovett, fuck - he knows how impossible it will be to lock himself away again, to fold all this new knowledge in alongside his old desires and file it away in a filing cabinet with no key.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Lovett grumbles, reaching out, blindly and unerringly, to trace the worry line in Jon's forehead. 

Jon laughs. “Telepathic now too?”

Lovett snorts into his pillow and rolls onto his back. His cheek is lined with creases and his arm flexes as he throws it over his eyes. “I know you too well.”

“Yeah.” Jon swallows.

_Two more days._

“Tommy's already got us a breakfast table. I'll take first shower?”

Lovett grunts and flexes his fingers.

Jon laughs and slides out of bed, adjusting the waistband of his boxers as he walks. He stops at the bathroom doorway, turning around just quickly enough to catch Lovett's eyes, heavy and slitted as they watch him, before they slam shut.

Jon swallows. “When this is over, we should talk.”

Lovett’s shoulders stiffen under the quilt.

“Clear the air,” Jon continues. “Put our, ahh, cards on the table.”

Lovett snorts. “That's Tanya's job. Did she really win a million credits?”

Jon nods. “She did. Dan was not happy about it.”

Lovett laughs, and it sounds scratchy with morning breath.

“So.” Jon takes a deep breath. “We can talk? Sunday night?”

Lovett groans. “Bring some of that bathtub gin?”

“Of course.”

Lovett pulls the quilt over his head.

“Good talk,” Jon chuckles, but he can't help but hum happily to himself as he steps under the spray.

Two more days. Two days and he'll know if he has forever.

***

“Look who decided to show up.”

“Fuck off.” Jon wraps his ankle around a chair leg and falls into it. The shower had woken him up, but with being awake came the pounding of his headache. He holds out his palm.

“Oh,” Tommy laughs. “Did you want something?”

Jon wiggles his fingers and doesn’t look up until he feels Tommy place the small hangover nanobot in his palm. 

“If it poisons you it’s not my problem.”

Jon shrugs, “I’ll shoulder that risk,” and downs it. It only takes a moment for it to filter through his bloodstream and then he blinks and the world is clearer and his stomach is grumbling louder. “Where’s the waiter?”

“We ordered you the continental,” Dan assures him. “Your better half, too. Where is he?”

Jon says “shower,” even though he doesn't have any actual proof of that. When he’d re-entered the bedroom, a towel low on his hips and a second in his hair, Lovett had been buried under both their pillows and a pile of blankets. He had perked up at the idea of breakfast, though, and when Jon left, he’d been pretty sure Lovett was right behind him.

Dan nods “we’ll ask them to keep his warm” and nods for the waiter.

Jon reaches for his coffee and avoids Tommy’s eyes. The hangover bot is working overtime, but he doesn’t think even the bot could undo the damage of a repeat lecture.

He’s saved from it by their waiter, who brings enough food to overflow onto a rolling cart next to the table. Jon looks up at him so gratefully and mutters around an egg and bacon sandwich, “we need to give him an extra tip.”

“Tanya won a million credits,” Dan says, sourly, “make her do it.”

Jon laughs and, when Tanya comes over to them, looking sprier than she has any right to be, he smiles at her. “Hey high roller.”

“Whatever you’re about to ask, the answer is no.”

Jon blinks. “It was a favor for our waiter.”

“Still no.” She laughs. “I have plans for that money.”

“Such as?”

“Such as taking my partners to see the four sunrises of Cion.”

Tommy bats his eyelashes at Dan. “If you had won, would you have taken me on an extravagant vacation?”

“If I had won,” Dan brushes his hair off his forehead, “I would have moved us out of that dump of an apartment.”

Tommy sighs. “Ever the romantic.”

“Hey,” Jon frowns. “Your apartment's on the same hallway as mine.”

Tommy blinks at him, then taps Dan's wrist. “I take it back, you're the most romantic man I know.”

“Fuck off.”

“Anyway,” Tanya interrupts. “I was hoping to get all of you in one place, but I see a table of food and no Lovett.”

Jon puts down his third breakfast sandwich. “He was showering,” he says, feeling less sure now that half an hour and all of Lovett’s favorite breakfast foods have passed.

Tanya raises an eyebrow.

Jon shrugs. “Probably went back to sleep.”

Tanya rolls her eyes. “Go get him up. We have our final run through in half an hour at the main debate stage.”

Jon nods and picks up his sandwich again.

Tanya stares at him.

“What?” Jon asks, flinching under her gaze. “Oh, right, I’m going, I’m going.”

Dan hands him a plate piled high with eggs and potatoes and sausage and Jon nods gratefully as he slides out of his chair. He wraps the bottom of his own sandwich in a napkin and heads for the elevators.

***

Lovett isn’t in their room. The red velvet heart bed is empty, their quilts piled high and messy. Jon takes a moment to smooth them out before heading into the bathroom. Lovett’s shaving kit is still buzzing next to the sink and his toothbrush is dribbling toothpaste on the counter.

Jon sighs, unplugging the razor and tipping the toothbrush into a cup. There are two towels in the middle of the floor, where Lovett must have dropped them while he was shaving. Jon kicks them to pile with his in the corner and shakes his head.

He drops the breakfast plate onto the table on his way out.

Elijah’s already in the hallway, fumbling with his own door and three bags of camera equipment. “Here.” Jon grabs the tripod. “Where’s Pri?”

Elijah smiles gratefully at him and leads the way to the elevator. “Tanya asked her to come early to go over the voter submitted questions.”

Jon nods. “Those could be bad.”

Elijah laughs, “exactly. Is Lovett still at breakfast?”

Jon shrugs. “I think he was going down as I was coming up.”

At least, Jon hopes he'd just missed Lovett in the elevator. If the mere mention of a post-fabricated relationship talk caused him to skip an extravagant Gnoth-sponsored breakfast in order to avoid Jon, then Jon has misread the last two weeks even worse than he thought possible.

Jon sighs. Maybe he only has two days, after all.

***

Lovett still isn't at the debate hall when Jon gets there. Tanya glares at him as he enters, tapping her tablet with her pen and placing her hand on her hip, judging, as if she knows just how much of this is Jon’s fault.

“He’s never on time,” Jon shrugs. "We can fill him in when he gets here."

"You can fill him in," she corrects, and jumps in.

They go over the stage set-up, the standard - two candidate podiums, a long table in front for them - and the nonstandard - the invisible nanobot wall between them and the crowd that won’t be intelligible unless it has cause to be. Jon shivers at just the thought of a second scorpion nanobot attack or something worse, as he keeps one eye on the door. He keeps expecting Lovett to burst through the doors at any moment, a muffin in one hand as he bemoans the organizers’ bad feng shui.

They go through their opening remarks. Tanya chastises them for joking and Jon keeps looking sideways, ready for Lovett to loop him into a professionally dangerous but amusing verbal prank to lighten her up, but Lovett’s chair stays obstinately empty.

They go through their written questions and then through the sorted audience questions. Jon takes a purposefully explosive take on wormhole infrastructure, hoping that it’ll pull Lovett out of wherever he’s hiding, but Lovett doesn’t appear and, instead, he ends up with a handwritten reading list from Dan to ‘professionalize his response.’

Finally Tanya sighs. “Well, that’s all I have. Jon, you can walk Lovett through it when he gets here.”

Jon frowns and suggests, “maybe he came down for breakfast then went up for another nap?,” because the alternative is unbearable. Lovett may have always had a loose relationship with deadlines, but he’s never been late when it really matters, and if Jon drove him to miss the most important meeting on the most important day of their professional lives-

All the things that were giving Jon hope this morning - a night pressed close together in that club booth, waking up with Lovett snoring softly beside him, the promise of finally putting all their cards on the table if they can just get through this damn debate - must have done the exact opposite to Lovett.

“Someone should probably check on him,” Jon says, as his chest pinches. “But it shouldn’t be me.”

Pri reaches for his room key. “I’ll go. He’s scared of me.”

“I can’t argue with that,” Jon laughs as he surrenders it.

***

Pri joins them at lunch with a shrug, “he wasn’t there. Maybe he got a lead he’s tracking down?”

Jon nods, “yeah, probably,” and tries not to drop any further into self-blame as they sit down to a Gnoth-provided spread Lovett would, generally, die for.

“Here,” Dan passes down the basket of sweet rolls. “These are incredible.”

“Better not.” Priyanka leans forward. “Tanya's taking us to Cion after the debate is over so I'm in pre-vacation mode.”

Dan shrugs. “Suit yourself. Jon?”

Jon takes one, “thanks,” wishing he had a reason to say _no_ , too.

“Did you know that Cion has four suns?” Pri asks, reaching for a seafood salad, an extravagance aboard the space-locked Station. “ _Four_ suns. I should get some lotion, Elijah's gonna burn to a crisp.

Jon laughs, trying to pull his mind away from images of Lovett on Cion's famous beaches. His pale feet sticking out from the towel as he reads the latest political thriller out loud, voice muffled from the second towel he has thrown over his head. Skin warm and soft under Jon's hands as he applies, and reapplies, suntan lotion. His fingers strong in Jon's as they rise with the dawn and sit on the dunes, sleepy and quiet.

Jon shakes his head and focuses back in on Pri.

If Lovett is missing the most extravagant lunch they've ever had on the station, he's certainly not taking the most romantic vacation in the Galaxy with Jon 

***

Lovett still isn’t back, though, when they head to the green room mid-afternoon, and Tanya starts talking about backup plans. “We’ll have to talk to lighting, but we can push the chairs closer together.” She bites her nail as she stares at her tablet. “And we can shuffle the questions. Dan, you can take the media questions?”

Dan nods, much to his makeup artist’s chagrin. “I really don’t think I’ll have to, but, sure.”

“Good,” Tanya nods absently. “And Jon, you can pick up taxes?”

“Ahh.” Jon swallows. “They’re on notecards, right?”

She nods. “Yeah. I should check in with the teleprompter-” and trails off as she leaves them alone with three over-enthusiast Ilyr with makeup brushes.

Dan tilts his chin up as his Ilyr artist urges him to. “Lovett runs when he’s pushed.”

Jon glares at Dan’s reflection in the mirror and tries not to move away from his own artist and their nine-fingered hands. “I didn’t push.”

“You were pretty drunk,” Tommy muses, from Dan’s other side. “Are you sure you remember everything?”

“I’d fucking remember fucking him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Dan raises an eyebrow. His makeup artist chatters and taps him with their brush. “Sorry,” Dan mutters, then, “I’m not blaming you, Jon. It’s just- We joke a lot, but this is one of the biggest nights of our lives and Lovett would be here if he thought he had a choice.”

“Don’t you think I fucking know that?” Jon pushes his own makeup artist aside and slides out of his chair. He’s half-finished - his eyebrows caked in power and his cheeks paler than they’ve been since he was twelve and couped up with scarlet fever - but he pushes out into the hallway where he can gasp for air in peace.

He paces, trying desperately to steady his breath, as Dan’s words ping-ponging across his mind.

_Lovett runs._

_Lovett runs_ and Jon knew that and Jon still fucking drove him away.

_Lovett runs_ and there’s not a damn thing Jon can do about it, now.

Jon’s halfway to spiraling out of control when his tablet bings, pulling him out of it abruptly. He pulls up the message - probably from Tanya, telling him to get his ass back in his chair, or his parents, with well wishes - but as he glances down, he freezes.

_For Jon Favreau’s eyes only._

Jon stands up straighter, icy fingers sliding down his spine.

_We have your partner. If you want him back, bring a million credits to the bakery at 16:00._

_Come alone. Tell no one._

Jon reads it again. And again. And again.

Then he knocks on Tanya's door.

***

Jon's been to the bakery a thousand and one times. He can smell the ghosts of cinnamon and sugar and thick, muddy coffee even as he walks down the eerily deserted hallways.

He passes exactly three people as he goes: a young couple with _Youth for a Progressive Future_ signs slung across their backs making out behind an upper education classroom and an old man walking his cat, oblivious to the entire Station emptying into the debate auditorium.

Jon's never seen it so quiet and empty as he stops outside the bakery. His palms are sweating and he adjusts his grip on the briefcase. He closes his eyes, taking a deep shuddering breath and focusing on the whir of the Station's centrifuge rather than the frantic beating his heart.

It's quiet enough that he hears the large marketplace clock click over to 16:00.

He opens his eyes and pushes inside.

The bakery is dark and deserted. The sink is still half full of dishes. There’s a tray of forgotten rice balls on the counter left over from the pre-debate rush that Jon would have snagged for Lovett under any other circumstance. Instead, he follows the low light and the hush of voices to the back room.

Lovett's handcuffed to the oven handle, his arms twisted awkwardly behind him. There's a dish rag tied around his mouth and Jon can see a long scrape on his temple that's already bruising yellow and blue.

“Ahh, Mr. Favreau, right on time.”

Lovett's head snaps up, his eyes watery as they catch Jon's. Jon tries to smile reassuringly at him, but it comes out ragged and sloppy.

Jon pulls his eyes from Lovett to his captors. Three Izied, all dressed in Anarchist leather vests. Jon recognizes the leader from the poker table the night before, and it takes him a moment, but then he places the female at the bar on Open Mic night. Jon doesn’t recognize the third, but he doesn’t have to. He’s standing off to the side, his legs spread and his arms crossed, bulging over his dangerous arm fins, and Jon knows instantly that Lovett’s temple bruise came from his fist. In any other circumstance, Jon would scoff at the hypocrisy of ‘Freedom Fighting’ bought and paid for in credits and violence.

As it stand, Jon barely holds back his disgust as he holds up the briefcase. “I have your money.”

The lead anarchist holds up his hand. The scales on his back ripple under his vest. The goon on his left cracks her knuckles, her long, yellow nails flexing. “Not so fast.”

“A million credits. That was the deal.”

“That was the deal,” the leader agrees. He nods his head and the right goon steps forward to take the briefcase from Jon.

“It’s all there,” Jon promises. 

“That was the deal,” the leader repeats, “until this one,” he aims a kick at Lovett’s ankle and misses, but does manage to jolt him and dislodge the gag, “started mouthing off.”

Lovett spits and it comes out a little pink from a cut on his lip. “Sorry I wasn’t up to your kidnapping victim standards.”

“He bit me,” the goon with the briefcase whines, baring his forearm. Two scales are bent. 

That explains the cut lip, then, and probably the gag in the first place. Jon cheers, internally.

“I’m not going to apologize,” Lovett glowers.

The leader kicks again and, this time, he cuts through the hem of Lovett’s jeans and leaves a bright, oozing cut in his skin.

Jon flinches. “What more do you want?”

The leader crosses his arms across his chest. “Another million.”

Jon forces himself to scoff as he mentally raids his bank accounts, then Lovett’s, then Andy’s and his parents and whatever Dan and Tommy will give him from the Crooked accounts.

“If you want your partner back.” The leader shrugs, his scales rising under his thick shoulder pads.

The leader’s yellow eyes flash and Jon grasps at the only possible way out of this.

“You can keep him,” Jon shrugs. Lovett flinches at the corner of his eye.

The leader crosses his arms tighter across his chest. “I don’t believe you. Humans don’t treat their partners like nest mates, but they don’t throw them away.”

Jon laughs, using everything Lovett’s ever taught him about comedy to twist it at the end so it doesn’t sound as desperate and choked as it feels. “He’s not my nest mate. He’s my business partner, nothing more.”

The leader’s smirk slips, just a little. “You are dating. It’s all over the Alliance press.”

Jon shakes his head and pastes on what he really hopes is a pitying smile. “Publicity, for the debates, nothing more.” And then, because Lovett’s shin is still bleeding and his forehead bruise is spreading across his right eye, Jon adds, for good measure. “He doesn’t mean anything more to me than a business partner. I barely decided to bring you the first million. He’s not worth a second.”

The leader frowns, his mossy eyebrows furrowing as he takes a second tactic. “Business partner or not, you need him for the debate.”

Jon’s eyes flick sideways. Lovett’s pulled his knees to his chest. His eyes are wide and seeping hurt.

Jon forces himself back to the anarchists. “You’re right, he does have a big mouth. Hardly worth the trouble. In fact-” Jon takes a step forward, closing the top of the briefcase back over Tanya’s gambling winnings- “I should just take these back.”

“No.” The leader jumps forward, his claws clanking across the medal snap of the briefcase. “We made a deal.”

Jon shrugs. “You changed the terms.”

The leader shakes his head, “old terms. No tricks,” and holds out his hand. “Do we have a deal?”

Jon counts to ten in his head, then takes the leader’s hand. “Deal.”

The right goon snaps the briefcase closed and pulls it to his side.

Jon snaps his fingers and holds out his hand. “I think you’re forgetting something.”

The leader’s eyes flash, but he drops the key into Jon’s palm. “Enjoy.”

And then they’re gone. The bakery rings with the sound of their claws on the deck plating and Lovett’s shallow breathing.

“Hey,” Jon murmurs, crouching down to undo Lovett’s handcuffs. “Did they hurt you anywhere else? Should I call a doctor?”

“No,” Lovett says, too quickly, as he scrambles backwards. “No doctors.”

“Okay.” Jon nods, slowly, trying to catch Lovett’s eyes. He holds out his hand, but Lovett ignores him, clinging to the oven as he rises to his feet unsteadily. “Lovett-” He swallows.

Lovett looks away. “We have a debate to moderate in an hour. Assuming you still-?”

Jon frowns. “Of course we do.”

Lovett shakes his head. “Tell Tanya I’ll be there.”

Jon’s frowns deepens as Lovett sucks in his stomach and slinks between Jon and the wall. “Where are you going?”

Lovett looks up, just for a moment, just long enough for Jon to see the fire in them. “I was going to take a shower in my quarters. Kind of figured bleeding on the debate stage would tarnish our image.”

Jon flinches. “Lovett.”

“Tell Tanya I’ll be there with bells on,” Lovett repeats, and then he’s gone.

Jon kicks the oven door. “Fuck.”

The door rattles on its hinges.

His foot throbs.

His heart aches.

***

“Welcome to the third and final date of the Alliance presidential race.”

Jon pauses and blinks down at his cue cards. 

“We’d like to thank Gnoth for sponsoring this event. They’ve made it possible to stream this debate for the millions of you watching across the Alliance, so, go visit Gnoth. It’s a really gorgeous place and is a perfect planet to take your-” Jon swallows and does not look out of the corner of his eye at Lovett folded into the chair next to him- “significant other or others on a romantic vacation.”

Lovett shifts, his shoulders sinking inwards. He angles his body towards Tommy, creating a physical and emotional barrier between them.

Jon’s hand are shaking and the words on his cards blur. He pulls on thirty-four years of watching debates to finish. “And we’d like to thank the full house here and ask you to please hold the applause until each candidate’s time is up. Thank you in advance.

“Our first question is on inter-Alliance immigration. Dan Pfeiffer has the question.”

Dan leans towards his mic. His back is straight and his voice is strong and Jon wonders if he could pass all his own cards down to Dan and just let Dan moderate the whole debate.

But this is the most important night of their careers. Jon needs to rise to the occasion, grab the bull by the horns, pick himself up by the bootstraps, what the fuck ever the Ancient Book of Earth Proverbs his mother kept in their childhood bathroom tells him to do.

Lovett, at least, is doing every one of those things.

Jon can see the dark circles under his eyes and the edges of the bruise peaking through the literal pound of makeup the Llyr had caked on in the short time they had had with him. The audience, though, can only see the strategically-placed blush and smooth skin, a carefully constructed neutral expression.

Jon hears every pause, every pocket of silence that Lovett should have filled with a laugh or a running bit. He’s been practising them all week and, while Tanya had vetoed the majority of them, there were a few that had her bent over in stitches. For the candidates, though, he just sounds professional and well-informed, his questions on infrastructure and his follow-ups on tax reform and media regulation thoughtful and timely.

The space between them feels heavy. Every time Lovett doesn’t press their ankles together is weighed down by images of Lovett in handcuffs. Every moment Lovett keeps his hands clasped together and a full foot down the table from Jon’s, it feels like an indictment on the full six hours Jon had spent wallowing in self-pity rather than looking for him. Jon can hear his own words - _hardly worth the trouble_ \- echoed back at him with every flinch or shift. To everyone watching, though, they both look the picture of professionalism.

The debate passes in a blur - a few sparring sessions, a scuffle in the crowd that was broken up immediately, a few incendiary remarks that they let pass them by - and then the cameras are off and the audience is filtering out. It’s loud, thousands of voices and feet and claws and tentacles stomping and clicking and slithering up the stairs, and Jon reaches out, wrapping his fingers around Lovett’s wrist before he can think about it.

Lovett freezes for a long, awful moment, then wrenches his hand out of Jon’s grip. “Don’t touch me.”

The guards are between them instantly, riled for another fight.

Jon raises his hands. “Sorry, sorry, I’m not-” He sighs, his voice cracking. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

The guards step back, reluctantly, but it’s too late. Lovett’s already gone.

***

“You owe me a trip to Cion.” Pri settles next to Jon. She hands him a champagne glass filled with something pink and orange.

“I owe you a trip,” Jon corrects. His heart squeezes as Tanya’s face floats back to him. Jon hadn’t gotten through half of his explanation before she’d offered her winnings, unasked and with no strings attached. “The hot springs on deck two might be a bit more my speed.”

Pri giggles. “Can you picture Elijah in a mud bath?”

Jon laughs with her, although it sounds hollow to him. “I am, now.”

Pri grins and leans against his shoulder. “As long as Tanya and Elijah are there, hot springs sound heavenly.”

Jon’s chest swoops into his knees.

“The Gnoth really know how to put on an after party,” Pri continues. “Everyone who knows anyone is here.”

Jon nods and follows her eyes to where Tanya and Dan are schmoozing. “Almost everyone.”

Pri shuffles her feet, sighing loud in his ear. “I don’t know if my opinion counts for much, but, I was scared once, too, and the only thing I regret is all the days I lost pining before Tanya finally kicked my ass into saying something.”

Jon swallows. “And if it hadn’t worked out?”

Pri shrugs. “Still the only thing I’d regret is the pining. I was pathetic, remember?”

Jon laughs. He remembers the few months after Pri had started, shy to the point of hiding around corners whenever Tanya would walk towards her. She’d been so nervous around Elijah that she’d drop equipment, but the only thing Elijah would bemoan, late at night over many, many drinks, was that the new girl with the perfect hair and the brilliant smile didn’t seem to like him much.

“You were,” Jon agrees. “That changed pretty quickly, though.”

Pri shrugs. “They made me ask for what I wanted. Everything else is history.”

Jon nods.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Pri asks, dropping her voice low.

Jon takes a deep breath. “If you’re about to tell me what you still get up to in that supply closet-”

“Fuck off.” She hits his shoulder.

Jon laughs and continues. “Re-finding a little of that shyness wouldn’t be remiss.”

She glares.

Jon shies away from her. “Don’t hit me again.”

She shakes her head. “You’re a lost cause and Lovett deserves so much better.”

Jon’s knees feel weak. He has to grip the wall to keep himself steady.

Pri slides sideways, her eyes softening as she looks at him. “He hides it behind jokes and bluster, but, Lovett doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, either.”

Jon shakes his head. “The things I said to him-”

Pri shrugs. “Do you want to regret all those days?”

Jon snorts, thinking, at once, how incredibly young and how incredibly wise she is. “Years, Priyanka. It’s already been years.”

She laughs, deep and unladylike, and Jon is so grateful for her. “That sounds like more than enough regret to me.”

He takes a deep breath and straightens, handing her his still-full glass. “Yeah, to me, too.”

“Go get ‘em,” she calls, loud enough to be heard over the din of the party.

He turns just long enough to give her the finger.

***

Lovett doesn't answer his phone any of the dozen times Jon calls it, but he's in their room when Jon finally gets back to the hotel.

Jon hates the way Lovett jumps when the door opens. “Sorry,” Lovett says, his voice low and rusty. “I thought you'd be at the party longer. I'll be out in a minute. I just need to-” He motions towards the bathroom.

Jon sighs and sits on the edge of the bed. Lovett's favorite shirt is still lost in the covers from where he'd left it that morning and Jon takes it. It's soft and smells like a sleep-amped version of him.

Lovett slinks back into the room, his dopp kit clutched in his fingers. He crosses to the bed, his eyes catching on the shirt in Jon's hands. Jon can see the internal fight flit across Lovett's face before he shrugs it off and zips up his bag. “I’ll be in for the Pod on Monday. We can talk about how to extricate myself quietly. Maybe I can keep Lovett or Leave It? I'll talk to Tanya.”

Jon freezes. “What?”

Lovett's hands clench against the handles of the duffle. “I can't do this anymore.”

It’s so much worse than Jon could have imagined that he can’t even think about the million moments of a Lovett-less future stretching out before him, colorless and anechoic. In Jon's worst-case scenario, Lovett might have wanted to move his chair to Tommy's other side, maybe he’d want to get his own office once they graduate to a big enough space for them to have offices.

Never, in Jon’s worst imaginations, was this on the table.

“You can't leave the Pod” Jon blurts, angrier than he means it to be, as an even worse thought crosses his mind. “Or, the company. Are you thinking of leaving _the company_?”

Lovett shies away from him. He's scrubbed the stage makeup off his cheeks, and Jon can see every unhappy line under his red, ruddy skin. “Don't do this, Jon. Don't make this harder. It's not fair.”

Jon shakes his head. “We've built this company from scratch.” He clutches the shirt closer. “You and me and Tommy and Dan and Tanya. We're just about to hit it big. You can't-”

Lovett looks at him, finally, finally, and it feels like Jon's finally able to tread water without drowning, except- Except Lovett's eyes are- Jon's never seen him like this. 

“You can stop humoring me,” he says, and Jon assumes he's trying to be steady, but it's hard to sound sure when his words are on fire. “I know when it's time to go.”

Jon frowns. “I’m not humoring you. I've never humored you.”

Lovett snorts. “You'll do just fine without me. Imagine all the time you'll have when you don’t have to deal with all the trouble I bring.”

Jon's heart sinks. “Lovett, that's not-”

“And you know what the worst part is?” Lovett shakes his head. “I’ve always known that being friends with me is a lot. I'm overwhelming, but with you, these last two weeks-” He blinks, dropping his head so Jon can’t see how his voice cracks. “I thought, maybe, just maybe you were different. But I can’t stay, and look at you every day, knowing that you don’t- And knowing that I was so wrong.”

“I don’t know what you-” Jon takes a deep breath. He thinks about next week, about sitting down for the Pod and seeing an empty chair out of the corner of his eye. He thinks about next year, about the coping mechanisms they will have developed to fill the spaces where Lovett should be. He thinks about the next ten, twenty, thirty years, about going grey and losing his daily fight with his expanding waistband and starting a fight with his cholesterol and doing it all with Lovett’s ghost at his back.

Jon thinks about that world, and he takes a deep breath, and leaps.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon says, slowly, reaching out to cover Lovett’s hands where they’re still clutching the duffle bag, “but I know what I hope you mean. These last two weeks have been so much more than I ever dreamed they could be.”

Lovett scoffs, but Jon tightens his fingers.

“I didn’t mean a word I said to the Gnoth,” he continues, his words catching in his throat. “Getting that note, seeing you there with that bruise on your face-” 

He raises his fingers to touch Lovett’s temple, but Lovett tilts his head away and Jon lets his hand drop.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” Jon swallows, “because my life doesn’t mean anything without you in it. I would have done anything to save you, even if it meant lying through my teeth. Honestly, you should be proud of every acting lesson you’ve ever taught me.”

“It was very believable,” Lovett swallows.

“Not a word of it was true,” Jon promises, sliding a little closer. “I love you, I have loved you, for as long as I can remember.”

Lovett shakes his head. “Jon-”

“And I’m sorry,” Jon rubs his thumb along Lovett’s knuckles, “for making you doubt that before I’d even made you believe it.”

Lovett blinks and pulls his hands from under Jon’s so he can wipe furiously at his eyes. “I don’t know if I can believe you.”

Jon’s knees ache as his heart sinks and sinks and sinks. “I know.”

Lovett grabs his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. “I need some time,” he whispers, raising his head so Jon can see his eyes, the fire doused with tears.

“Take all the time you need,” Jon whispers. “I’ll be waiting.”

Lovett opens his mouth, then closes it and nods. He turns on his heel and slips out of the room, quieter than Jon has ever seen him.

Jon lies back on the bed, Lovett’s shirt still clutched in his hands, and only then does he start to cry.

***

Jon doesn’t know how much time has passed when the key in the door wakes him from a light sleep. The artificial Station light outside his window has dimmed, though, so he reckons it’s past midnight. He rubs his eyes, reaching out for his phone to check, when the bed dips.

“Hi.” Lovett sits, cross-legged, at Jon’s side. He reaches out, then stops himself. “Is that my shirt?”

Jon shrugs, sitting up and placing the shirt aside. “Yeah, you left it.”

Lovett nods. “Okay.”

“Sorry,” Jon murmurs. His voice is scratchy with sleep. “I don’t know if that’s creepy or-”

“It’s endearing,” Lovett shrugs, “mostly.” His eyes are red and bloodshot, but his breath doesn’t smell like alcohol. His bruise looks worse, spreading down his cheek in splotches of yellow and purple. There’s a bandage over his cut.

Before his sleep-addled brain can stop himself, Jon reaches out to touch the edge of the bandage. “You got it checked out.”

Lovett flinches, but doesn’t move away. “Tommy and Dan made me.”

Jon nods. “Remind me to thank them, sometime.”

“You might wanna wait for a minute on that.” Lovett bites his lip, dropping his chin and dislodging Jon’s hand. “This morning, you said you wanted to talk. What did you want to talk about?”

Jon sits up straighter. “I wanted to tell you that these last two weeks have been more than I ever thought I could have,” he says, earnestly. “And I wanted to ask for more. If you’d give it to me.”

Lovett bites his lip and nods, slowly.

Jon reaches out for Lovett’s hands, holding them gently. “I love you, Jon.”

Lovett makes a surprised noise and sways closer. “Jon.”

“I love you,” Jon repeats. “I was _so afraid_ to tell you, but that hasn’t gotten me anywhere, so, all cards on the table?”

Lovett nods, looking up and catching Jon’s eyes.

Jon smiles wetly. “I want everything from you. Everything we’ve had these past two weeks and so much more. I want you to force my parents to eat insects and tentacles. I want you to make fun of my brushing habits during ad reads. I want to hold your hand as you try to poke holes in every kino we go to. I want to tell teenagers and grandparents alike that you’re mine, and I want to grow old with you, just like this.” Jon squeezes his fingers.

Lovett shakes his head. “I’m so scared.”

“Me too.” Jon blinks, his heart rising, finally, finally, to settle in Lovett’s hands. “I’m fucking terrified.”

Lovett closes his eyes and for one, terrifying moment, Jon thinks he’s going to pull away, taking Jon’s heart and their future with him.

But then Lovett opens them again, wet and brilliant and smiling. “Fuck, Jon, I love you too.”

Jon can barely breath as he tips forward. “Can I kiss you?”

Lovett nods, slowly, but moves forward to close the distance between them.

It’s softer than the last time, shivering through Jon’s body and pounding, aching and real, in every vein and joint and pore. Lovett tastes like adrenaline and salt and, when he parts his lips, he explores Jon as thoroughly as Jon is exploring him. Like he’s worried Jon will disappear, like he’s worried this will be his only chance.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Jon promises, sliding his hand along Lovett’s temple and tracing the edges of his bruise. “I’ll be here in the morning, and every morning after that, until you ask me to leave.”

Lovett shakes his head. “Fuck, Jon,” and then he’s leaning forward again and this time he kisses like he means it. All tongue and teeth and hands, tugging at the edges of Jon’s shirt. Jon raises his arms, pulling at Lovett’s lips, snagging on the deep cut and swallowing his hiss.

“I love you,” Jon murmurs, as he lowers Lovett to his back and settles between his knees. They’re both achingly hard, hot and leaking in Jon’s palm as gets his hand around them both.

Lovett arches towards him, “you too, god, love, _please_ ,” all warm skin and soft curves. They move in concert, as they do everything else, Lovett giving and Jon taking and asking for more, so much more, everything Lovett has as Lovett breathes it into him.

Afterwards, Lovett rolls onto his back, his breath coming in wet, broken hitches as Jon kisses his chest. “I’m sorry I made you wait so long.”

Lovett shakes his head, rubbing his hand up Jon’s spine. “I’m sorry I never told you, either.”

“We were both idiots,” Jon agrees.

“Let’s never tell Dan and Tommy,” Lovett sighs. “They’re going to be smug enough as it is.”

Jon looks up at him. “I have them to thank for this?”

Lovett nods. “We should send them a fruit basket.”

Jon laughs. “The Gnoth too.”

Lovett grins. “They’re going to be so pleased.”

Jon’s laugh slides into a yawn. “Should we tell them the whole truth? They’ll love the ending.”

Lovett laughs and brushes Jon’s hair off his forehead. “We can put it in an ad.”

Jon nods. “Deal.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos, as always, appreciated! And come find me on [tumblr](https://stainyourhands.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat about these boys!


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